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You have to remind yourself. Strings
are tied around the ash tree's fingers.
Fuzzy ties on an afternoon that begins
at half-strength. So you aren't afraid of
the awry. Even if you don't know how
a partial eclipse will affect an unclouded
late morning. The bronze of bygone,
the mutedness of reminiscence, a sun
that has moon-colored glasses on.
Puny saplings downtown are unrolling
on the pavement bolts of shadow-calico
with sprigs reminding you not to look
at the sun while the moon and mortalityi
pass before it. Partially there and you
keep trying to arouse yourself from shades
of daydreams. You were back in the dimness
of kerosene kitchens and ankle hems, then
you went on an amber outing. Too much
smudged visibility in stained glass haze.
Under the crescent sun, the pendulum
sways and you swallow the colors around
you like lozenges because you are
feeling bleary as those people outside
looking at rose-tinted reflections
of the sickle sun in the hypnotist sky.
Spaced out. A lull in the muffled office.
Waiting-room murmurs until the peals of
normality snap you into the brazen present.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts